


The Break, and a Cut

by captnalbatr0ss



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-07-26 08:59:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7568146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captnalbatr0ss/pseuds/captnalbatr0ss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Rafe have a complicated relationship. They push each other's buttons a lot, argue a lot, but this time Sam crosses a line, pushes Rafe until he finally breaks—and when Sam finds out what that really looks like, he realizes he might not get the chance to put Rafe back together this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This Dance We Do

**Author's Note:**

> A fic request that evolved into a multi-chapter story.

* * *

 

They had been bickering all day, picking at each other, a constant barrage of sharp words, softly spoken. It wasn’t until that evening that it had taken such a turn, escalated so abruptly. Sam couldn’t remember why anymore, couldn’t remember what had really been the catalyst, but it was spiraling, a nosedive.

_Down, and down, and down again, baby, oh this dance we do._

Sam was pacing back and forth, temper hot. He could feel his voice getting louder, louder, as it always did when he was really angry. 

In contrast, Rafe’s was a quiet rage, a deceptively low burn. It always unnerved Sam—when Rafe finally passed the point of yelling, of breaking things, when he retreated inward, when the storm behind his eyes broke. It was an eerie calm.

“Why do you do that, huh?” Sam stopped in his tracks, staring Rafe down. “Get so fuckin’—hollow.”

“Don’t.” Rafe’s tone was flat, even. His eyes weren’t cold, weren’t hot—they weren’t anything.

Sam waited, watched, silently willing Rafe’s face to change, to give away something. But it didn’t, and that just made Sam angrier, made him snap.

“You’re a coward. That’s all you are. Shit like this happens, normal fucking relationship bullshit, and you disappear. And we never resolve a goddamn thing. I’m just—I’m sick of having the same fights, Rafe. You hear me? I’m tired. It’s fuckin’ exhausting.” 

Sam crossed the room, stopped inches away from Rafe—the last power play he knew he had, standing so close that it forced Rafe to look up to face him. 

“Hey.” Sam started to reach for Rafe, then shook his head, let his arm drop back to his side. “Where are you? Where do you even go, huh?” 

Sam felt the line, felt himself hit it and subconsciously fall back. But the way Rafe looked at him—through him, with those eyes, like glass. No. Sam was going to make Rafe fucking react, was going to make him feel something.

“Say something, goddamn it.”

Rafe set his jaw, his eyes like stone.

“Where  _are you_?!”

But Rafe didn’t flinch, not even when Sam screamed at him.

Sam took a step back, eyes on the ceiling as he ran both hands through his hair. “Jesus, do you actually feel anything? Do you? It doesn’t seem like it. You know, it’s normal to feel shit. It’s normal to fucking react. Whatever you do, whatever  _this_  is—” Sam gestured broadly to Rafe, a sweeping motion. ”—it’s not normal. Maybe you should think about that. Use some of your fuckin’ money on something that  _matters_. Throw some money at someone who can figure out what the fuck is wrong with you, ‘cause God help me  _I_ sure as hell can’t do it.”

That did it—a flicker, and Sam almost missed it, but there was a twitch, one twitch in Rafe’s jaw, and he swallowed hard before he spoke again. 

“Are you done?”

And Sam knew what Rafe meant, but the words were out before he could stop them, and they left a sour taste in his mouth. “Maybe I should be.”

It was only by reflex that Sam caught Rafe’s wrist before he struck Sam’s face.

“Fucking  _really_  Rafe? You gonna hit me?”

Rafe jerked his arm back, his composure cracking, but Sam didn’t let go—instead, yanked him closer. 

“Jesus, I expected more—better.”

“Fuck you, Sam.”

“Fuck me? You already did, or do you not remember leaving me for dead in Panama—”

Rafe lunged, used all of his force to throw his arm down, wrenching it from Sam’s fingers as he pitched his full weight forward. Sam caught him with a grunt, pushing back, using his size to his advantage as he wrapped one arm around Rafe’s waist, the other around his shoulders, struggling with Rafe until the smaller man finally stilled, but Sam could feel his body still coiled, taut.

For a moment there was a breathless silence, the tension palpable, heavy. Sam’s grip on Rafe was fierce, and Rafe very nearly grimaced as he felt bone press too tight against bone.

“Let me go.” Rafe’s voice was softer, but still sharp, still unwavering.

“It’d be my fuckin’  _pleasure_.” Sam pushed back as he released Rafe, putting space between them.

“Get out.”

“No.”

“No?” Rafe’s hands clenched into fists. “Fine,” and he turned, leaving Sam in the living room, retreating to their bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

He paced there for a moment, but Sam’s book was still open, face down on the bed, clothes from last night discarded on the floor. His lighter on the nightstand. Sam was just fucking everywhere Rafe looked, and Rafe couldn’t settle on if it made him sick or just furious. 

Both. Neither. Everything. Nothing.

The anger, he recognized, was much more complicated for him. It came often from a spring internal, rather than a reaction to any outside stimulus. And it had deep roots in his own sense of control—and the fear of losing it.

_Control._

Always a struggle, a fight to find it, maintain it.

Tonight, it was the same. He was furious at Sam, at the things he’d said, but he was more furious that when they fought, Rafe had no real control over the outcome. He didn’t like sharing that with Sam, not with anyone. He didn’t like giving it up. It made him feel exposed, vulnerable. It wasn’t comfortable, it didn’t feel safe.

_**Where are you?** _

Rafe crossed the room, ducked into the bathroom—another slam, and the brush of metal against metal as he turned the lock, leaning against the solid wood of the door. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and he frowned.

He approached slowly, staring at his reflection, trying to see what Sam saw—trying to see himself.

_Where am I? I’m here. I’ve been here, I’m here._

He leaned close, his eyes narrowed. The details were there, but something was missing, the core. The depth. There was only surface—the sharpness of his eyes, blue, brown,  _blank_. The angle of his jaw, the curve of his lips. It meant nothing, was nothing. A veneer. Thin, and meant to make something cheap, something fake appear genuine. An illusion.

_Everyone knows what you are, you’re not fooling anyone._

No.

_They all know what you are. Samuel Drake knows what you are._

_A fraud. A liar. A lie._

No.

Rafe closed his eyes, gripped the edges of the sink, grounded himself. “Stop,” he whispered.

He held his breath, withdrew inward, searching for something—anything. 

He thought of Sam, of the smiles he’d learned to coax out of Rafe. He thought of those moments where soft touches felt like anything but, the gentle kisses that left him breathless. He thought of Sam’s eyes, his face, his voice when he had first told Rafe he loved him—and when that love had swelled, burst, sent them both falling, head over heels. And he thought of Sam with him, wrapped up, wound up, twisted up, and he thought of how strong Sam seemed, and even stronger when he took Rafe in his arms. He thought of the many times Sam had set him in a tailspin, careening, as they moved together, came together like the crash of waves.

And he knew he should feel something, it had to be there—but where was it?

**_You always run. Where do you go?_ **

Nowhere. Anywhere. Away.

_Coward._

Rafe’s muscles tensed, quivered, fought. 

_Feel something._

_**FEEL**  something._

But he couldn’t. He’d become too good at drawing the emotion up, pushing it out. He didn’t know how to pull it back in. He didn’t know how to recover what he’d already shed, and the deeper he dug, the more hollow he felt.

_What’s wrong with me. What am I? Why can’t I—_

“ _Feel_  something!” His voice rang in his own ears, punctuated by the sound of glass breaking. It was almost a sweet sound, soft. 

Smooth, and slick, and then the break, and a cut. The whisper of it as it fell—into the sink, onto the floor. 

Rafe stared at the dull gray in front of him, a few pieces of glass still clinging to it. Blank, empty, utterly unremarkable. He leaned closer, considered it against the memory of his own reflection—and this seemed a better representation, as if the mirror had been the lie all along. 

The truth was the blank slate—something he had never bothered to fill, something he had only ever continued to wipe clean.

His chest compressed, throat flexed in a strangled, vacant laugh. He smothered it immediately by pressing his hand over his lips.

Warm. Red.

He lowered his hand, tilting his head. One large shard of glass, and several smaller pieces, jutting out. Rafe tucked his bottom lip under, pressed his tongue to it, and realized he’d cut his lip on one of those pieces.

He watched the blood slowly rising, pulsing out with the beat of his heart, and he wondered why he still couldn’t fucking feel it.

He took the big piece carefully between thumb and forefinger, braced himself to pull it out, but he paused, pads of his fingers slipping on the glass, and then, instead, he pushed it deeper.

_**Do you actually feel anything?** _

“Do I?” Rafe whispered, but he didn’t, and then he did pull the glass free.

_**Whatever this is, it’s not normal.** _

He held his hand up, watched the blood drip down, slowly at first, and then faster. He admired the bold color of it in contrast to his skin. The strong heat of it.

It caught the flaws in his forearms, old scars—so faint. He’d never actually cut that deep before, because—

_I didn’t need to. I still felt something then._

He watched as several of the blood trails rejoined at his elbow, dripped down. Bright red, violent red on the slick white floor.

He’d never cut very deep because—

_I remember control. I remember the sting. I remember discipline. I remember the bite. I felt it then, but not anymore._

Rafe caught his fractured reflection in one of the larger pieces in the sink. It looked normal to him—it looked right. Maybe that’s what he had always been off; he was too whole before, too hidden behind the mask he’d fashioned, so perfect, and that was the lie.

The truth was broken pieces, rough reconstruction—sharp-edged and dangerous.

**_Where are you?_ **

Rafe picked up one of the pieces from the sink, considered it for a moment, pressed it experimentally against his forearm. Pressed until a new line of red appeared, but he was numb.

His eyes narrowed, jaw tightened, and he pressed harder, pulled across. He watched the skin split, he waited—

Nothing.

_Are you done?_

“No. No, goddamnit, feel something.”

He kept trying—

_Discipline._

—kept pushing, deeper, deeper—

_**Do you even feel anything?** _

—but all that came were sensations, not emotions. And even still, no pain. Just warmth, first on his skin, and then in it, building into a soft numbness that settled in his belly, traveled to his head.

_**I expected more—better.** _

He tried, relentlessly, both arms, no success. When the shard slipped from his fingers, he was surprised. His focus broke, eyes dropping to the floor, the broken mirror and—

_Oh._

So much, so red.

He held his hands out, elbows bent and palms up, and saw that they shook. He reached for the sink, fingers gripping the porcelain to steady himself. Cold. Slick.

He felt suddenly tired, physically, mentally. He took a few unsteady steps back, bumping against the wide edge of the tub, knocking over a few bottles. He sat. Leaned against the wall, closed his eyes.

_Just for a minute._

_Just a..._

_Just..._

“Rafe?”

Rafe opened his eyes, blinked slowly, turning his head toward the door. Toward Sam’s voice.

“Hey, could you—would you come out, baby? I…I’m sorry.” A pause. “Shit, I was outta line. C’mon, can we talk? I, ah…I made us some dinner. If you’re hungry…”

_Sam?_

And then—

_Dinner? How long have I—_

He lifted his arm to check the time, was surprised at the stiffness he felt. His watch face was red, and he used his thumb to wipe it off, to see how much—

_Oh._

“Rafe, please don’t shut me out. You can be mad, I don’t mind.” A short, hesitant laugh. Sam, and his white flag, trying to lighten the mood. “I woulda let you hit me—if it’d make this part go faster.”

Rafe stood carefully, took a step toward the door, but suddenly his legs didn’t have the strength to support him and he collapsed. He felt a sharp pain, white hot, where his head connected with the tub.

_Oh._

“Rafe, hey. What was that, you okay?”

Rafe opened his mouth to reply, became distracted by a soft ringing in his ear. Seeping in, swallowing him up just like the strange weightlessness he now felt in all his limbs.

Sam, knocking on the door—the sound, a weak echo.

“Hey!  _Rafe_! You open this door,  _right_  fucking now, Rafe—”

Rafe pushed himself up, using the edge of the tub to help him stand, but it was no use, his legs just wouldn’t hold. And when he fell the second time, he didn’t get up.

Rafe felt his heart quicken—but each beat and each breath was weak, shallow. It was getting difficult to keep his eyes open.

_Are you done?_

_Or am I?_

Sam was getting louder, more frantic. Rafe could make out the solid, steady beat of Sam’s shoulder against the door. Again. Again. Again.

_Why don’t I feel anything?_

There was a sharp crack that stood out even against the white noise seeping into Rafe’s head, but what cut through more intensely was the sound Sam made when his foot slipped in blood, when he saw Rafe crumpled on the floor.

“Rafe? Wh—?” Sam reached for Rafe, stumbling, crashing to his knees, scooping Rafe up, distraught. “No—nono _no_ ,  _oh god_ , Rafe, sweetheart, what did you do?” Sam aggressively blinked back tears, his vision swimming.

He braced himself, pulled, fell back, Rafe in his lap. He was pale, too pale. There was so much blood.

“Rafe. You stay, you stay with me, don’t you leave me, goddamnit, don’t do this to me, sweetheart—“

His fingers trembled as he grabbed his phone, pressed the keys. He was on autopilot as he rattled off Rafe’s address—their address. His voice didn’t sound like his own; it was thick, heavy, unsteady.

“Please—” he was saying. “He’s…he’s bleeding out.” A choked sob. “Hurry, Jesus,  _fuck_ , I—I think he’s d—” But Sam couldn’t make himself say the word. It hurt too much. 

Sam was vaguely aware of being told to stay on the line, less aware of hitting speakerphone before letting the phone drop from his hands so he could focus on Rafe. He grabbed the closest towel, gently moved Rafe’s arms. His hands, tentative, careful of the deep gashes on Rafe’s forearms. He closed his eyes, swallowed thickly, laid the towel over them. Applied pressure, trying not to think about how fast the red started to bloom, began to seep into the towel.

“Baby. Baby, hey…look at me. Please—Can you look at me? Rafe.” He pressed a hand to Rafe’s cheek, silently willing his eyes to open. “Rafe, stay with me. You stay with me.”

Rafe’s eyelids fluttered open, slow, but they were dull, tired, and Sam had never been so afraid.

Rafe’s lips twitched, moved slightly, and Sam leaned down, pressing his ear close, holding his breath.

“You were right,” Rafe was saying—or, breathing. His voice was impossibly faint. “I—always run.” 

_Always—_

_Away—_

“Rafe, hang on. Wait.  _WAIT_.”

Rafe was sinking in a sort of calming warmth in Sam’s arms—held tightly and rocked back, forth, back, forth. His cheeks felt hot, he realized it was Sam—Sam’s tears.

Sam felt Rafe slipping, fading in his arms, and he heard himself screaming—not words, not anymore, just a pained and high-pitched keening, and he held Rafe so tight that his muscles ached—clinging to him, to all his broken pieces, and the blood. And he looked so small, and too pale, and Sam knew in that moment that he needed to—had to go wherever Rafe went. The ambulance, the hospital, heaven or hell, he wouldn’t be ripped from his other half.

“I love you. Rafe, I love you.” Sam’s voice hitched, fell apart. “Don't— don’t go. Please, I can’t. I need you to stay.  _Rafe._ ”

“I didn’t mean to—” Rafe tried, but wasn’t sure if he was really speaking, or if it was just in his head. “I just wanted to feel something.”

And then it came—finally. A feeling. And it was guilt—Guilt for being so cold, for building so many walls in the first place. Regret for the tremor in Sam’s voice, the quiver of his lip, and the way his body kept spasming as he wept.

But then those feelings fell away and all Rafe felt was cold, even in Sam’s arms. And it was getting dark. There was a sensation of sinking, of floating, all at once. And darker. Shrinking. Someone was yelling—

_Sam?_

But the water was rising, and the water was red, and Rafe couldn’t breathe—wasn’t breathing.

Separating. Diverging. Watching himself, watching Sam.

No sound, just deafening silence.

He saw Sam, he saw himself in Sam’s arms. And so much blood. Sam had never looked so frightened. Sam was clutching Rafe—his body—so tight, and his shoulders shook, his body rocked, his face was hidden against Rafe’s.

_**Where do you go?** _

_Where am I going?_

_**What did you do?** _

_What have I done?_

But then, there was nothing. Just the red heat, just the empty dark.

 

* * *

 

“Where is he? Is he gonna be okay? Rafe—god,  _oh god_. Please, I gotta see him, where is he?”

“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t allow you to go back. Family only.”

“What? But he’s my—”

“Sir, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do, my hands are tied. Hospital policy is very clear.”

“No.  _No_ , listen, you don’t understand, he needs me. And I—I need—”

“Sir, I need you to take a step back.”

Sam hadn’t realized he’d clenched his fists, hadn’t noticed that he was practically shouting—that everyone in the hospital lobby was staring at him.

Sam wanted to throw a punch. Scream. Break something. He was so frustrated, he felt like he could kill someone—

_What if you already did?_

He let out a choked sob, taking one, two, three quick steps away.

He had no energy, no strength. He had nothing.

He sat on one of the couches in the lobby, slowly slumped to his side, and curled up there until one too many people went to the hospital staff to express concern about Sam—the tall man with bloody clothes who wouldn’t stop whimpering, who couldn’t stop crying.

The receptionist had called him a cab, sent him home.

It felt like walking into a stranger’s house. It was familiar, but nominally. Like a place in a dream—he knew that he knew it, and yet, looking around, nothing was quite right. It was all off balance. A piece was missing, too big. The foundation.

_Rafe._

He paused in the kitchen, frowning when he saw the plates still on the counter. It was nothing. Stupid. Just sandwiches. Stupid fucking sandwiches. But suddenly he couldn’t stand looking at them, suddenly they made him so angry, and he grabbed both plates, slung their contents into the garbage. Stacked the plates in the sink.

Sam went through the motions, rummaging under the sink for cleaner. For rags. And in the laundry room for a mop. Rafe had a cleaning service come once a week, but this was too close. Too personal. Intimate. Sam refused to let strangers clean up Rafe’s blood.

And there was so much. Between himself, the two paramedics, there were three sets of footprints from the font door, up the stairs, through their bedroom, into their bathroom. 

He followed them. The closer he got to the bathroom, the darker, more prominent they became.

He paused at their bedroom door. He could see the bathroom from where he stood, and he closed his eyes, held his breath until he felt slightly more confident he wouldn’t throw up.

Sam felt another wave of dismay, of pain when he took the first step into the bathroom. The floor was almost impossible for him to look at. What had already seemed like a lot of blood when it was pooling around Rafe, and then when it was pooling around the both of them—Sam, with Rafe in his arms—had been smeared, streaked, and it seemed impossible that it could’ve all come from Rafe. 

Sam was afraid.

He thought of Rafe, who always looked so surprised when Sam did something unexpected to help out, especially menial tasks like cleaning. Thought of the way the corners of his mouth would lift, the way his eyebrow would raise. Sam thought about how Rafe would step into his arms, lean up for a kiss, and whisper a soft ‘thank you’ just before their lips met. 

He thought of the fight, of how Rafe had withdrawn, internalized, taking it all on himself instead of hurling insults. And Sam thought of how hard he’d pushed, just to get a rise, just because he couldn’t handle arguments the way Rafe did.

_Do you even feel anything?_

_Where do you go?_

And then—

_Where did you go?_

_Will you come back?_

_Please come back, Rafe, please._

Sam was on his hands and knees cleaning, scrubbing, finally starting to make progress. 

And then he realized that he might not have anyone to be cleaning up for anyway. That Rafe might never come home. Never press close, or steal a kiss, never—

“Please—” Sam whimpered. “Oh no, no. Please.”

He backed up until his back hit the wall, and he slid down, and now Sam sat, tucked in the small space between the end of the tub and the sink, head in his hands. 

Out of breath. 

Nauseous. 

The smell of blood, of water, of soap. The water in the bucket was pink, and the rags.

And Rafe might not come back. He might be gone.

Sam couldn’t even remember what the fight had been about, why it had felt so important, or why he had pushed so hard. 

But he had, and he’d lashed out, and now he felt every word, a throbbing ache in his chest.

He couldn’t catch his breath. And he couldn’t move.

He felt like a man at sea, pitched from his ship, overboard. And there was no life vest, no safety rope, no one to save him. He was fighting to keep his head above water. Only the water was hot, and it was red, red. It boiled, it heaved, it raged beneath the storm. And Sam’s compass, his heading, was lost, maybe forever.

Sam was sinking, and he didn’t know if he would ever find his way back up, back home. The answer was in a bed, in a room, in a hospital. A man, one man. 

_Rafe._

And all Sam could do was wait.

Wait. And sink.

_Down, and down, and down again, baby, but I don’t wanna do this with anyone but you._

 

 


	2. What Remains

Sam woke up to sunlight in his eyes, a stiff neck. He didn’t remember falling asleep. He was slumped over, still in the bathroom, still against the corner, and for a moment nothing made sense and what the hell was he even doing in here and why hadn’t Rafe called him back to bed, why—

_Rafe._

_God—_

Sam sucked in a deep breath, grimaced at the sting behind his eyes. His head felt fuzzy, tight. He ached, but he wasn’t sure if it was from sleeping so awkwardly, or if—

_Coward. You always run._

_I expected_

_Where do you go? Do you even—can you even—_

_More. Better._

_What the fuck is—I don’t think you—_

_Feel._

A flood of words, like poison, engulfing.

Sam saw the bucket, the rags—and still so much blood. It felt like being physically hit, a sharp and vicious pain that made his stomach turn. He shut it out, not ready to handle what remained, but behind closed eyes there was a flash—

Images.

Sensations. 

Rafe in his arms, dead weight, liquid heat and a weak heartbeat. 

Sam’s eyes flew open, he was pushing himself up, a knee-jerk reaction, the instinct to flee, to run from the memory. He slipped, caught himself on the sink, but not before knocking over the bucket, letting out a string of curses as the water spilled.

“Fuck. Goddamnit, motherfucking— Shit.  _SHIT_.” 

He turned abruptly, stepped into the bedroom, slamming the bathroom door shut as hard as he could. It hit the jamb, but Sam had broken the lock to get to Rafe, and so it bounced open again, mocking him, defying him.

Sam clenched his jaw, his fists, trying to compose himself.

He felt his phone buzz, scrambled to dig it out of his pocket, whispering a desperate prayer that it was the hospital with news. He answered it without even looking.

“Is he okay?  _Christ_ , you gotta  _tell me_ —”

“Sam?”

Sam’s heart sank. “Nathan.”

“Sam… Are you okay? I just saw the news—"

Sam blinked, swallowed, his throat was dry. His hands shook. “You what? The news?” He closed his eyes, the realization hit him. “No, oh no, no.”

“Sam?—”

But Sam was dropping the phone, was picking up the remote. He held his breath, pressed the power button. The first news channel he came to, and there it was.

Seeing Rafe's picture there, it gutted Sam. As far as Rafe’s corporate head-shots went, it was Sam’s favorite—Rafe, head on, his perfect, over-confident grin made more charming than smug thanks to the way it weighed heavier on one side, almost more of a rakish half-smile. And his eyes—blue with that ring of brown Sam found so mesmerizing, and framed by those heavy lids; eyes so sharp, so piercing that they looked anything but tired. His hair, dark, combed back, shaved shorter on the sides, and all of it impossibly soft, fine. 

He'd pushed that hair back, raked fingers through it so many times, that he could practically feel it, even now, against his fingertips.

_“—getting reports that Rafe Adler, heir to the Adler fortune, has been hospitalized after an apparent suicide attempt.”_

Sam stepped back, sat heavily on the sofa. It was hard to breathe, hard to  _be_. He turned the volume up a few clicks, taking a shaky breath.

_“—rushed to the hospital early Sunday morning, where he remains in critical condition.”_

The voices on the television were drowned out by the pounding in his head, and he pressed the heels of his palms against his temples. Broken pieces, fragments filtered in through the white noise that swelled between his ears, metastasized, engulfed him.

_“—who work for Adler are ‘shocked and saddened,’ according to a source close to the family.”_

Sam heard his phone ring again and he leaned down, grabbed it with a weak grip. “Ah, w—what?”

“Sam!”

“Yeah?”

“What the hell happened?” A pause, and softer, “Please, Sam, talk to me.”

_“—with no comment from the family at this time. We have very few details—”_

“Nathan, I can’t,” Sam pressed his hand to his face, rubbed his jaw. “I can’t do this right now, I gotta call you back.”

“Wait—”

Sam hung up, glanced once more at the TV.

_“—rumored that Adler Sr. could return to act as CEO in his son’s absence, but that has not been confirmed.”_

Sam couldn’t take anymore, turned the TV off. He patted his pockets for keys, realized he hadn’t changed clothes since yesterday.

His fingers found the hem of his shirt, pulled it out slightly, blinking back tears. He felt the sound in his throat before he heard it, a smothered mix of alarm and anguish.

“God— oh God.”

He couldn’t get them off fast enough. He balled up his clothes, ruined with blood, tossed them into the bathroom. They hit the floor, began to soak up the water from the overturned bucket.

“Fuck."

Sam threw on clean clothes, hurried downstairs, grabbing his keys, locking the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

The room was cold. Silent, save for the steady high-pitched beeping, the whispered  _tick-tick-tick_  of the clock. A smell, faint, of disinfectant. Clinical.

In the heavy quiet, what sounds he did hear seemed louder than they really were, louder as they rattled around in his head.

_Where are you?_

Rafe opened his eyes.

Tired. Weak. 

The ceiling tiles above him, fluorescent lights, and everything was white. 

Rafe wanted to swallow, but his throat was too dry. His tongue was like sandpaper, and heavy. A burden in his mouth.

There was a tightness around his head, constricting. He lifted his right hand instinctively, sought it out—a bit of gauze wrapped all the way around. He pressed his fingers against it; at his forehead, his temple, nothing. But as he tried to reach further, to the back of his head, there was a resistance, an unbearable stiffness, a throbbing pain that swelled. He let out a sharp cry that hardly sounded like anything at all.

Tubes, tape, bandages. Both arms wrapped, from wrist to elbow on his right, from wrist to bicep on his left.

_Oh_.

Rafe closed his eyes, counted backwards, listened to his heart monitor slow again.

He carefully lifted his right arm away from his body, just slightly. He extended his fingers, winced at the at the pressure. He curled his fingers inward, tried to make a fist, but he lacked the strength. And there was very little sensation in his whole hand.

Then he lifted his left arm. It hurt more than the right. Rafe turned it, his palm up. He wanted to bend it at the elbow, but the bandage made it hard.

Instead, he flexed his fingers.

He flexed his fingers.

Flexed—his—

_Come—on—just—move—_

He couldn’t flex his fingers.

His brow furrowed in concentration, his breath quickened. He tried to make a fist, his body trembled with the effort.

Nothing.

_Oh_.

“Do you feel anything?”

Rafe’e eyes snapped left, toward the sound. He hadn’t noticed the door open, and now there was a petite blonde woman there, standing by his bed.

“What.”

“Your hand.” She indicated to his left side, to the hand he still held out, the hand that didn’t move at all even though he continued to try.

She leaned in, carefully reaching for his hand. She touched her fingertips to the back, his knuckles. Then, gently, she covered his hand with hers, began to slowly put pressure on his fingers, curling them under until his heart rate spiked.

“Fuck! What’re you—” 

“You felt that?”

“What do you think?” he barked, scowling at her.

“Where?”

“The hell do you mean, where?”

She set a finger, so softly, against first his, then against the back of his hand, and, more carefully, his wrist.

Rafe frowned, shook his head. “No.” He stared at his bandaged arm, even though it still felt like a thing that didn't belong to him. “It felt like—like pulling.”

“Here?” She let her hand hover over his forearm, careful not to touch it.

Rafe responded with a curt nod.

She picked up his clipboard, jotting something down.

“Please excuse me, Mr. Adler. I’ll go inform Dr. Klein that you’re awake.”

And just like that, she was gone.

The pain in his arm dulled gradually, but he thought of her fingertips on his skin, and wondered what they felt like.

Because he wasn’t sure.

_I don’t feel anything._

Rafe closed his eyes, willed away the tears. They were worthless anyway.

 

* * *

  

Sam found himself in the waiting room with very little memory of arriving there. He’d been in a daze the entire drive, and even now, looking around, things were still foggy.

“Rafe—” Sam zeroed in on the tall brunette manning the nurse’s station—he was already talking as he approached the counter, his eyes desperately hopeful. “Where is he? How is he?”

“Excuse me?”

“Rafe Adler. Please—please, can I see him?”

“I’m sorry, sir, who are you?”

“I’m Sam. Ah, Samuel Drake. I’m the one who called 911, I…I rode in the ambulance with him last night—ah, this morning.”

“One moment, sir.”

Sam drummed his fingers anxiously on the counter, watching as the woman pulled something up on her computer, examined it carefully.

“I’m sorry, but you’re not on the list.” She offered a tight smile.

Sam swallowed hard, pushed the matter. “I know yesterday they said family only, but—C’mon, I’m begging you. Look, look, I—I love him." 

He thought of Rafe waking up, alone, and he thought of the emptiness that always chased him, and he wondered what would happen if it finally caught up, finally overtook him. 

"He needs me, and I need to be there…I  _can’t_  not be there. Please, you gotta let me see him, just...you don't  _understand_  how he—”

Sam saw someone coming out of the doors, the doors he wanted so badly to get through. He immediately shifted his attention to the slender blonde who’d just set those doors to swinging.

“Excuse me! Ay, excuse me,” he nearly ran into her. “Sorry, I just—you don’t—didn’t.  _Fuck_. Sorry. I, I just—” Sam swallowed hard, tried to take a deep breath, with mild success. “Rafe Adler. I haven’t seen him since he got wheeled through those doors. Please. Is there any way you can help me? Even just…Can you tell me how he is? Please. Jesus… _please_.”

He watched her eyes search his face, stood quietly while she considered him. Her long blonde hair was pulled up in a messy bun. She was pretty, but she looked tired. She had kind eyes. Sam tried to put on a friendly smile, but it was tight, and it slipped away almost as fast as he could conjure it.

“Sir, I—”

“Sam. I’m Sam.” He held his breath.

“Sam…” she hesitated, glanced quickly over Sam’s shoulder to the woman behind the desk, who shook her head insistently. “I’m afraid I can’t…” 

She trailed off, brow furrowing as Sam’s jaw tightened, a fight to contain his emotions. He shut his eyes tight, turned away, rubbed his palms over his face, breathing fast.

“This isn’t happening. This is not happening. No. Not happening. Wake up, Sam.” And then, softer, “Oh Sammy,  _wake up_.”

His legs felt heavy, it was a chore just to take the few steps back to one of the small couches along the wall. He planted himself there, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

He sensed someone in front of him, lifted his eyes. The blonde.

“Can I get you some water,” she offered a small smile, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Sam?”

Sam shook his head. “No.”

“Well, is there…is there anything else you’d like?”

“I’d like to see him,” Sam replied. “That’s all there is. That’s it.”

She pursed her lips, her eyes whispered apologies. “I’m—” But she stopped short, eyes darting to the tall man who’d just stepped out of the elevator.

“Dr. Klein. Doctor!”

The doctor stopped at the front desk, waiting expectantly. She hurried toward him, and Sam leaned up slightly, watching. They spoke softly—Sam couldn’t make out what they were saying, but she was talking fast, gesturing with her hands, and then she was leading him back through those goddamn doors, and Sam’s eyes followed them both until they disappeared from sight.

 

* * *

 

The room was colder, darker. He heard the steady high-pitched beeping, the whispered  _tick-tick-tick_ , and voices. A smell, cheap soap. A taste, bitter.

_Where are you?_

Rafe opened his eyes again.

A severe looking man with sharp eyes and a false smile. Dark hair, speckled with gray—well groomed. 

Rafe tilted his head, eyes narrowing as he sized up the doctor.

“Ah, good to see you awake again, Mr. Adler.” His voice was smooth, easy. Practiced. Performed. “I’m Dr. Klein. I’m your attending physician.”

Rafe regarded him with pointed disinterest. “When can I go home?”

Klein’s laugh was soft, intentionally gentle. Rafe hated it immediately.

“One step at a time, sir.”

Rafe’s eyes narrowed, hardened. “Stop that.”

Klein clasped his hands together, raising both brows. “Stop what, Mr. Adler?”

“Laughing. Stop. And answer my fucking question.”

Klein’s smile faded. “Very well. Due to the nature of your...condition, we're obliged to keep you under observation for no less than 3, no more than 10 days, during which time we will evaluate and monitor your physical, as well as your mental health. Mr. Adler, you’ve done significant damage to yourself, cosmetic and otherwise. Every, ah, wound required stitches. You’ll need physical therapy to regain full use of your right hand.” 

Klein paused, glanced at the nurse, who was watching Rafe with sad eyes.

Rafe didn’t like it—it felt like pity. “Stop that.” This time directed at her.

Her cheeks flushed and she averted her gaze, busied herself with something else.

“Unfortunately,” Klein continued. “You sustained significant nerve damage in your left arm.”

Rafe set his jaw, instinctively trying again to move his left hand, a minor act of defiance—it wasn't true, it couldn't be, and  _I'll show them_. But he was wrong and it was true, and he didn't show them anything, not even a twitch, so when he felt the threat of tears, he choked them back. One thing, at least, that remained in his power. For the time being.

“We’ve done what we can to reconnect the nerve, repair the damage, but there’s a chance you’ll never—”

But Rafe wasn’t listening, not anymore. He felt himself coiling, churning, spinning. He was a tempest, and lightning, and waves. 

Like a slow leak, he felt the good things slipping—and he thought of Sam. It felt like losing, and it felt like falling away, and he suddenly couldn’t remember what it was to be okay.

He stared at his hand, still as stone, grinding his teeth as he tried to move it. Tried to feel it.

_Control._

And still, there was nothing.

_Let go._

And he thought of Sam, and he thought of Sam’s hands in his own, of not being able to feel that again. He thought of Sam’s face, his stubble against Rafe’s palm, of not being able to feel  _that_  again, either.

He was vaguely aware that the sound coming from his heart monitor was becoming increasingly unsteady, rapid.

_Sam._

He thought of heat and bedsheets, hard lines and soft strokes, running fingers through hair, and holding on  _tight_.

_What good are you now?_

He was half inside, half outside of himself, observing, drifting, lost. And what remained, tethered to his wreckage, was desolate.

_Are you done?_

_Yes. There's nothing left._

He closed his eyes, let himself recede.

_Safer inside, just keep them out. They can't hurt you if you just keep them out._

He thought of the mirror, and his reflection—the lie. He thought of the shards, of the empty gray, the blank slate. The truth. He lingered there, and he—

_Push. Out. All. Else._

_Empty._

“Get out.” His voice was cold, and it was hollow, and it was true.

“Mr. Adler, I’m afraid I must insist—”

“Get out! Get out! Get the  _fuck_  out!”

Somewhere inside him, a pressure was building, pushing, expanding. His heart was pounding so hard that it hurt. And there they were, just staring. The doctor, the nurse—and she still had that look in her eyes, and Rafe ignited.

“What did I  _fucking_  say?! God  _FUCKING_  damnit,  _GET OUT_!”

He was pawing at the tubes—only he couldn’t get a grip on them, couldn’t feel them against his fingers. He ignored the growing ache beneath his bandages, and he was screaming, and the tempo of his heart was frantic.

Hands on him. Holding him down. Rafe felt, suddenly, like a wild animal. His eyes were wide, his breath came ragged through bared teeth, and he summoned all the energy he had, pulled it up, struggled against the weight pinning his shoulders, his hips.

He heard more people come in, felt more hands, saw bright patches of red blooming on his bandages.

The needle— _no, not the needle, please_ —he didn't have to ask, he knew what was in it. The rage fractured, and fear seeped in.

“No. No. You  _can’t_ —I don’t want it, I don’t want to. No God  _please DON’T_ —”

But it was administered through the line, and there was the drip, the goddamn IV, and soon he was crashing back down. The sedative took hold, pulled him beneath the surface. 

He tried to leave himself again, to withdraw. But though he fought to find, to embrace the emptiness, one thing intruded, filled him with something else. The one thing brought the many, and it was—

It was love, and it was fear, and it was agony, and it was—

“Sam—”

Dead weight against the mattress. 

“Sam…”

Sinking.

_Down,_

_and down,_

_and down._

 

* * *

 

Sam woke with a start. He groaned, his neck protested when he tried to look around. He’d fallen asleep, tipped over sideways on the small sofa.

He sat up, rubbing his eyes. His head still felt fuzzy, too big, like it was full of cotton. His eyes were fatigued. Every time he thought he'd run out of tears, more came. It was exhausting.

He got up slowly, ducked into the men’s room. He splashed some cold water on his face, risking a peek at his reflection. 

Sam frowned, running a hand over his hair, smoothing it down as best he could. He was a pitiful sight. His eyes were red, puffy, he needed a shave. He saw it all, and he knew it, and it didn’t matter. Nothing did, not really—he tried, but he couldn’t make himself care. 

He finished up in the bathroom, returned to his little couch. There was a strange sensation, one that struck him as he scanned the people in the waiting room with him, their faces. So many of them, especially the other nurses, they looked so normal. 

_Is that what we looked like,_  Sam wondered. _Is that what it looks like, before it falls apart? And how can they smile, how can they laugh, or eat, or breathe. Don’t they know how fragile, how tenuous—_

Sam jumped when his phone rang, and he bowed his head again as he answered it.

“Hey, little brother.”

“Sam, Jesus, I’ve been worried sick, what’s going on? Where are you?”

“Hospital.”

“How is he?” Nathan’s voice was soft, the concern genuine.

“I—don’t know,” Sam answered, trying to pretend he didn’t hear the way his voice crumbled, faltered.

“What do you mean?”

“They won’t let me back—ah, family only, they keep telling me.” He closed his eyes. “Won’t even say how he is. I mean Jesus, for all I know he could be—”

“No, Sam. No.” Nathan’s tone was firm, confident—for his brother’s sake. “They would’ve said something on the news. Look, I’m gonna book a flight—”

“No, ah… Don’t. Nathan, finish the job.” 

He saw familiar blonde hair, sat up straighter. The nurse, walking towards him.

Nathan was protesting, but Sam interrupted. “I mean it, Nathan. Finish it. I gotta go.”

He hung up the phone, stood as the blonde approached. She looked a bit more wound up than she had the last time, and it worried him.

“Is it—”

“Sam,” she said quickly, and a little too loud. “There you are. Come on, I can show you where the cafeteria is now.”

Sam furrowed his brow, confused, but she gently grabbed his arm, began leading him away.

“What’re you—”

“Like I was saying,” she continued. “the cafeteria is on the east side of the building. We serve breakfast, lunch, dinner. We’re open all night, but after ten there’s only vending machine access. You’re welcome to sit at any of the tables, of course.”

Sam followed behind her, perplexed. She was a petite thing, a solid foot shorter than Sam, but she had a firm voice, and strong hands. And when she directed him to a table on the far end of the cafeteria, gestured for him to take a seat, he did.

She sat across from him, and leaned forward. Close enough to keep her voice low, but not close enough to draw attention.

“I’m sorry about that,” she said softly. “We’ve already had two different people in trying to ask about Mr. Adler. Reporters who think they’re subtle, and it’s only going to get worse. Hospital policy is very strict, especially with someone of his…” She frowned, shaking her head. “That’s not the point. Sam.”

Sam braced himself, features tightening, tensing when she laid a hand over his.

“He’s improving. Resting. He…” She furrowed her brow, recalling Rafe's outburst, wondering if she’d been the only one to notice when the anger melted into fear. “He’ll need time, he’s…been through a lot. He's woken up twice now, he seems coherent, um...” She frowned when she thought of him yelling at her, didn't want to put it quite that way, and so— "He's...got a lot of fight in him."

Sam visibly flinched.

_A lot of fight. A fucking fight. Why did we even fucking fight?_

His hands shook. He wanted so badly to ask so many things, but when he opened his mouth, no sound would come. He pressed his palms against the table hard, trying to steady himself.

“He severed—ah,” she caught herself, moved her other hand to his, slipped his between hers and squeezed. “I’m sorry. He’s got serious nerve damage in his left arm. Dr. Klein thinks that— Well, there’s a chance he’ll never regain full function. But… But his right arm should heal, and with some physical therapy, he should get back most, if not all function in his right hand…”

Sam didn’t realize he was crying again until he felt fresh tears, hot on his cheeks. The guilt he felt was total, was overwhelming. It crippled him. He heard her speaking again, but nothing made sense.

“Sam?” She looked around quickly, gave his hand one more squeeze as she pulled away, returning moments later with a box of tissues.

Sam grabbed one, and then another, pressed them to his face. It helped, but not much. He clenched his fists, but it made him think of Rafe—of how Rafe often did that, not just when he was angry, but when he was worked up and fighting to regain control of himself—

_And now he can’t. He can’t, and it’s my fault, and it was already so hard for him to calm himself down, and what have I done?_

That thought broke him again, and his shoulders shook as he cried, but the sounds that came were weak. He was so tired.

He felt someone sit next to him, knew it was her, and she tentatively placed a hand on his back, trying to comfort him. They sat in silence for several minutes, Sam’s arms on the table, and his head against them, and her hand gently rubbing, until finally Sam regained some semblance of self.

“Thank you,” he finally managed, and he sat up straighter, taking the tissues she offered. “I can’t thank you enough—”

“You’re welcome. I’d better get back.” She stood, tucked a few loose hairs behind her ear. “I’ll see ya around, Sam.”

“You said you couldn’t tell me anything before. What made you change your mind?” 

She shrugged, her eyes softened. “Because I can tell you really care for him. And because,” she paused, hugging herself. “He said your name.”

Sam leaned against the table again as she walked away, struggling to process it all.

Rafe, who always managed to surprise Sam with his strength, who had quick reflexes and nimble fingers. Who could be stoic, severe, but also gentle, tender. Sam’s mind drifted to playful nights, pulling hard at clothes, the bruises Rafe sometimes left when his fingers dug in, so hard.

He thought of every little thing, everything he blamed himself for taking away. The little post-its Rafe often left him around the house, and Sam loved them—loved reading Rafe's firm, bold print. Would he still be able to do that? Would he even want to? 

Thumbing through papers, typing emails, sketching on maps, taking notes—

_My fault—It’s my fault. I pushed, too hard, I knew. I did it anyway. I did this._

He was brought back from his thoughts by a voice, loud, through the speaker. 

_Code Blue? What—_

His stomach tightened, and he stood, waited, unsure.

He saw movement from the corner of his eye, he turned toward it. The blonde nurse, the only one to show him any kind of real sympathy—and she was running.

Sam’s heart sank, plummeted. He ran after her.

He could think of only one thing— _Rafe_ —one thing and nothing else.

He wasn’t sure if she noticed him behind her or not—he didn’t care. Briefly he heard someone call out, but then he was through those double doors, and it was unimportant. Only one thing mattered. He stopped short of entering the room, knew deep down he’d be in the way. Instead, he skidded to a stop, all but slammed into the wall, his face to the window.

Inside, a flurry of bodies surrounding a bed, a frenzy of activity.

He saw, briefly, bare skin, and the electrodes for the defibrillator. His throat went dry, tightened.

Then one of the nurses stepped aside, and for a moment, there he was.

_Rafe_.

Strong hands pushed the paddles down, one on the right side of his chest, a bit higher than his heart, the other on the left, and lower. It looked too big, too heavy against Rafe's pale skin. Sam let out an audible cry as he watched Rafe’s body tighten, twitch up just slightly in response to the shock.

His vision blurred with tears.

“God—Rafe,  _RAFE_! Oh, baby,  _please_ , pl—”

The words died on his lips when he saw the bandages. Crisp white, covering every inch of Rafe’s forearms, and then some, and it all came crashing down, and Sam felt dizzy, so dizzy.

The paddles again, the jolt, Rafe lifting to it.

Sam’s hands pressed tight to the glass, he was shouting something, but he wasn’t sure if it was words, he wasn't sure of anything anymore. He watched as the tension in the room broke, at least a fraction, and the heart monitor finally registered a stronger, steadier pulse. For a moment Rafe disappeared from view again, behind a handful of people double monitoring levels, securing tubes, checking bandages.

Sam held his breath, then released the sob he’d been holding in when he saw Rafe’s eyes slowly open.

Sam didn’t realize he was slamming his fists against the window until he felt someone grab his wrist on the downward swing, start pulling him back. Just as Rafe’s eyes found him, and Sam’s met his. Sam fought his way back to the glass, keeping eye contact as long as he could. Then there were more hands, too strong for him, and he felt himself hauled backwards. 

He kept his eyes on Rafe, and his heart broke as he watched—Rafe, motionless for a moment, and then, almost drunkenly, his head lolled, and Sam could tell from his face, from that face he knew so well, that he was crying. More than crying. 

Weeping.

 

* * *

 

The room was too bright. He didn’t hear the insistent beeping of his heart rate monitor, or the ticking of the clock. He didn’t hear anything at all. But there was a smell, strong, of cologne. Aftershave.

_Where are you?_

Rafe opened his eyes.

His father, standing at the foot of his bed. His back to Rafe.

Rafe immediately wondered if he looked as terrible as he felt, keenly aware that if he did, his father wouldn’t let it go unmentioned. He tried to shift, sit up, at least square his shoulders to face his father, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t.

“Do you feel anything?”

Rafe recoiled, felt his heart beat faster, and why couldn’t he hear his heart monitor?

His father turned, smiled.

“Do you feel anything?”

But his mouth didn’t move—Lips drawn back. Teeth, too white, too perfect. He didn’t blink. Wouldn’t blink.

_No. No, no._

“You’re an embarrassment.”

_Stop—_

“A disappointment.”

_Please—_

“A coward.”

His father stood right beside him, his hips by Rafe’s shoulders.

“You always run.”

_No._

_No no no_

“You should’ve kept running.”

_I can't. I can't, I can't—_

"You should've run faster."

His father reached down, loosened his belt, pulled it free. Rafe felt bile in his throat, and something metallic. He couldn’t move, not when his father laid a hand on his shoulder, not when he slipped the belt behind Rafe’s neck, tucked the worn leather through the buckle, tightened it. Rafe felt his windpipe constrict against the violent pressure on his throat.

The belt, it was always the belt.

It was rough, callous. The leather pulled, gripped, and Rafe coughed, clawing at it, his eyes wide. His father braced one hand, fingers splayed, on the center of Rafe’s chest, held him down. His other hand gripped the end of the belt, he drew his arm up, the muscles in his neck, his back straining.

“Let go.”

Rafe bucked, struggled, he was kicking.

_Pl—ease—_

A sharp jolt. A white flash. Rafe’s body arched, shuddered.

_Wake up_.

His father, standing at the foot of his bed. His back to Rafe.

He turned, glided toward Rafe, smiling. An alligator grin.

_It’s a dream. Just a dream—_

Lips drawn back. Teeth, too white, too perfect. He didn’t blink. Wouldn’t blink.

“You’re weak.”

His father’s fingers slid across his arm, and again, and again—short, swift strokes.

Blinding pain.

The skin split open each time his father’s finger ran across it.

“You’re a failure.”

A sharp jolt. A white flash. Stars exploded behind Rafe’s eyes, his chest convulsed.

_Wake up._

His father at the foot of the bed.

An alligator grin.

Pain.

A sharp jolt. A white flash. The sensation of falling.

_His father—_

“Charging!”

_—at the foot of the bed—_

“Five hundred!”

_—Lips drawn back. He didn’t blink. Wouldn’t—_

“Clear!”

A sharp jolt. A white flash.

_Wake up—_

Rafe gasped, his eyes opened, his chest hurt. There were people all around him, so many, too many, and it both frightened him and angered him. And he wanted to tell them to get out, but he couldn't. He couldn't.

Hands on him, fingers prodding, more tape to better anchor the tube in his arm, adjusting, tightening bandages. 

Rafe still felt a tightness at his throat, a remnant of the dream, and he knew tears were streaming down his face. He could feel them, like fire. He tried not to focus on the frenzy of activity surrounding him, trained his eyes beyond all of them, looking to the blurry middle-distance. Looking to—

_Sam._

They locked eyes. The moment lingered, heavy, painful. 

Sam’s face was wet, his eyes bloodshot. His hands were pressed to the glass, his mouth was moving, he was frantic. Someone was trying to pull him away, but he fought against it, his hands were fists. He hammered on the window with them, and Rafe could hear his screams, but they were muffled.

Rafe felt the pressure again, building, boiling. It was too much. It was too strong.

Rafe swallowed a sob, the first one, but it was all he had the will to manage. And then, all at once, the dam broke and the tears came like a flood, and he was pulled under, swept away.


	3. Heavy the Hand.

It was always too cold in the room, and Rafe hated the smell. Antiseptic, sterile. Altogether unpleasant. Someone had put an arrangement of flowers by his bed, a small card tucked amidst them. Rafe didn’t read it, didn’t care.

An empty gesture. Hollow. Meaningless.

He stared at the plate of food in front of him, but the thought of eating made him tired. He hated the flimsy fold-out table, and he hated when they brought him a meal because it meant that the table would swing out across his hips, would stay there until someone came to take his plate away.

He never ate much of what they brought him. What did they expect? He could hardly hold the fork.

His doctor, his nurses, they insisted he begin using his right hand as much as he was able, but he resented the notion, and much preferred to avoid it, to remain still. In fact, sometimes if he held himself still enough he could almost pretend that he wasn’t damaged. That everything worked.

He saw the nurses more than his doctor, and there were a handful of them. But the blonde nurse stood out the most. He had learned that she was called Andi, short for Andrea. She was accommodating, nice. Rafe tolerated her, although he disliked how often he caught her watching him, because she always looked sad.

Rafe was anxious to get out of the hospital. Every second he spent tucked beneath those rough white sheets added to the humiliation he felt.

The bandages on his arms were itchy, constricting. He stared at his hands, absently trying to move his fingers. The right hand responded, slowly. The mobility, dexterity was limited, and his grip was weak. But there was movement. His left hand, however…

Rafe frowned, slumped back against the pillow. They’d adjusted the incline of the bed for him, sitting him up. Because he was supposed to be eating.

_Well, I’m supposed to be a lot of things that I’m not. So. Fuck it._

It took every ounce of control not to sweep the plate of food onto the floor and out of his goddamned way.

“Good evening, Mr. Adler.”

Rafe glanced up, shifting his expression to neutral with practiced ease. He watched the nurse quietly—it wasn’t Andi, this one was older, with dark hair pulled back, too tight, into a high ponytail. His eyes followed her as she moved closer. She was already softly scolding him for not eating.

“You haven’t touched your dinner.”

Rafe didn’t like her tone. It felt like an accusation more than an observation. It reminded him of the way his parents had spoken to him when he was younger, when he didn’t do something they thought he should.

And he still wasn’t hungry, but now he damn sure wasn’t eating. A matter of principle.

“How are we feeling this evening?”

 _We? How are_ **_we_ ** _feeling? Well,_ **_you_ ** _seem just fucking fine. I, on the other hand—_

_Jesus, can’t you just leave me alone._

“Have you been moving your fingers at all, like we discussed?”

Rafe’s jaw tightened. He liked to speak as little as possible to the nurses, but this one was making it very difficult to keep his mouth shut.

_Control._

Rafe stared her down a moment longer before leaning back again, closing his eyes, trying to ignore her completely.

“You have a visitor this evening,” she continued, checking his IV, making a note on his clipboard, probably about his refusing to eat dinner—no gold star today.

_Wait._

_A visitor?_

_No. Not like this, Sam can’t see me like this—_

Rafe’s eyes opened immediately. “It’s family only.”

“That’s right, sir.”

“But then—” Rafe’s heart sank.

_No, it can’t be—he wouldn’t—_

_But of course he would._

“No.” Rafe’s voice was firm, decisive.

“Sir?”

“No visitors. I don’t want any visitors, I don’t care who they are.”

“Sir, I’m afraid—”

“Goddamnit I said no. I don’t care how much money that sonofabitch donated—”

“Oh, come now, is that any way to talk about your father, Rafe?” A deeper voice, one that certainly didn’t belong to any nurse. A voice that Rafe knew all too well.

Rafe’s focus shifted from the nurse to the man now standing in the doorway.

_No._

He wanted to push back against the bed, away, away, but there was nowhere to go.

Rafe watched as the nurse removed his plate of food, pushed the tray table out of the way again, and quietly excused herself, leaving him alone with his father.

“Well, aren’t you a sight.”

His father approached the bed slowly, and the pointed judgement in his eyes dug in, found a place in Rafe he had thought he’d numbed but hadn’t, sparked a fresh wave of self-loathing.

“Why are you here?” Rafe employed every ounce of will-power to keep his voice steady, and his eyes cold.

“To check on my only son, why else?”

The elder Adler reached out, placed a hand on Rafe’s shoulder. To anyone else, it would look like a fatherly gesture of reassurance, but Rafe felt the way those fingers dug in, the bruising strength, the malice.

“What have you done to yourself? What is this?” He let his hand drift down, and Rafe couldn’t contain the sharp gasp when fingers pressed just a bit too hard against the bandages on his arm. “They tell me you required—” His father paused, shook his head. “Well, more stitches than I would’ve guessed. But then you never did anything halfway, did you, son?”

Rafe tightened his jaw, pressed his lips together, held his father’s gaze with defiance. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself, if that’s what you think. I just—” He stopped short, pursed his lips.

“You just what?”

Rafe dropped his gaze, frowning. “Nothing.”

Rafe’s father’s eyes narrowed, became even more severe. “Try again.”

Rafe looked up, and when he spoke his voice was too soft, and he wished he hadn’t said anything at all. “I just wanted to feel something.”

His father raised both brows, surprised, and then he laughed. It came from deep in his belly, a short burst, and it struck Rafe another blow internally.

“You haven’t told anyone else that, have you?”

Rafe shrunk back from the laughter, falling silent again, shaking his head—a curt, abrupt _no_.

“Good. That’s good. I think you’d better keep that bit to yourself. This is abysmal enough as it is. To feel something. Christ alive.” He chuckled again.

Rafe swallowed thickly, a bitter taste in his mouth.

“You look like hell. Those bags under your eyes. Your skin’s a bit dry. I’ll be sure to have them give you a trim. A shave. Look at this, this won’t do.”

Rafe turned his head, tried to pull away from the fingers in his hair.

“Ghastly. Just ghastly. Why, it would’ve been less of an embarrassment to have to eulogize a weak-minded son than to risk seeing this,” he gestured broadly, “in my morning paper.”

Rafe inhaled deeply through his nose, closed his eyes. “You should be thanking me. You’re certainly getting _your_ fifteen minutes out of this.”

“Don’t take that tone with me, Rafe, I won’t—”

“I saw that farce of a press conference, is that the best you’ve— _Ah!_ ” Rafe felt a shock of pain, looked immediately to the cause.

Two hands, one on each of his arms, gripping tight. The pain was immense. He could hear his heart monitor speeding up, and then the pressure on his right arm was gone, and the beeping stopped as his father yanked the power cord from the wall.

“Who do you think you are, interrupting me?”

“Let go of me.”

His father leaned close. Rafe could smell the coffee on his breath, could feel the heat against his face, and his father’s voice was little more than a harsh whisper. “You’re nothing. _Nothing_. And if you ever talk to me like that again, I’ll finish what you _couldn’t_.”

He dug his fingers into Rafe’s arms, hard, and Rafe felt the tears spring to his eyes. He heard himself whimper, hated himself for it, but it came despite his efforts to stifle it—

“ _Please_ —”

“You’re a disgrace, pulling a stunt like this. Don’t you dare embarrass me like this again. I won’t have it.” His father let go, straightened,  adjusted his coat. “Now. I have to go take care of some business. Let’s just hope the damage you’ve done to my company isn’t as bad as the damage you’ve done to yourself. You’re costing me a fortune, I hope you know that.”

Rafe turned away, held his arms against his chest. They were throbbing, aching, warm. He curled up as best he could in the confines of the hospital bed, and it wasn’t comfortable but it felt safer somehow. He listened to the heavy footfalls as his father left.

Silence again, no heart monitor—not until the nurse came back and discovered it unplugged. He examined his arms, saw a few blooms of red rising up through the layers of gauze, and he felt the sting at his eyes again, the urge to cry, and he thought _why not_ and he tried to _let go_.

But there was nothing left, just the disappointment, just the shame.

_I wasn’t trying to, but maybe I should have._

His father’s words rang in his ears.

_You’re nothing. You’re nothing. You’re—_

“Mr. Adler?”

Rafe tensed at the voice, relaxed when he recognized it. It was Andi this time, instead of the unpleasant nurse from before.

“Is everything okay?”

It was a rhetorical question, but Andi seemed fond of asking those. It was better, Rafe supposed, than being told outright that he ought not roll onto his side, that it wasn’t good to put pressure on his IV line by stretching it like that. It felt less like being chastised.

“Everything’s fine.”

“Come on.” The gentle pressure of her fingers on his shoulder, urging him to lie back. “Help me out here.”

And so, he did.

Rafe was still as Andi checked his bandages—still, even though his arms throbbed, and his head. Silent, when she asked how his heart monitor had been unplugged, when she’d pointed out the blood and asked what he’d done to pop a few stitches.

He’d also remained silent while she fetched someone to see to his stitches, and when they removed the bandaging from his arms, he closed his eyes and turned away.

_How did it happen?_

_What does it matter,_ he thought. _Who would believe me?_

_My father did it. My father, who’s got a whole wing in this hospital named after him, thanks to his donations. My father, who sold me out on national news, who used the opportunity to shed a few tears in front of an audience of millions—the man who, no matter what he tells you or anybody else, has no intention of letting me return as CEO._

_And what does anything matter?_

After the doctor finished up, left, and it was just the two of them again, Andi set about rewrapping his arms. Rafe closed his eyes, and when she asked him to lift his arms—first one, then the other—he complied.

He was glad it was her, at least. She was always gentle with him.

He stared absently at the television, muted, in the corner of the room. The weather. Something about rain, a chance of storms.

Fitting.

“You should be feeling better soon.” Andi finished with his left arm, gently tapped the back of his hand to let him know she was done. “What the doctor gave you will help with that—with the pain. It should even help you sleep.”

“Alright.”

“Do you want me to turn it off?”

Rafe frowned, opened his eyes. “What.”

“The TV,” Andi explained. “I can turn it off for you, if you—”

“No. Leave it.”

Rafe glanced up again, and his face was there— _Jesus, they could’ve picked a better picture_ —a small rectangle in the top right corner, and a headline. One of many, he felt certain. And his father, and the podium, and those fucking crocodile tears. Another recap.

He was glad it was muted.

_Leave it. Give me something to hate. At least it’s a feeling._

“Oh. Of course, sir. I’m sorry, I just thought—”

“Stop it.”

He liked her better than the rest, and he almost felt bad for snapping. But he was tired, so tired of ‘I’m sorry’. Like a word repeated one too many times, it had lost all meaning. It sounded like bullshit.

“I’m sor—” She caught herself, stopped just shy of apologizing again. “Right. Um… Let me know if there’s anything you need. I’m here through the night.”

Rafe turned his head, watched as she started to leave.

“Wait—”

She turned, her eyes bright and waiting, patient. “Yes?”

“Is he—” Rafe searched her face, frowned, looked away.

Andi offered a small smile. “Sam’s here every day.” She waited, just for a moment—just to be sure he wouldn’t correct her on his question.

He didn’t.

“On second thought, ah…you can go ahead and turn it off.”

Andi seemed almost glad he’d asked, and with a press of the button the TV blinked off. “Goodnight, Mr. Adler.”

“Stop it.” Rafe pursed his lips, closed his eyes. _—Mr. Adler is my father and I am not my father, I am not my father, I am not—_ “I mean—Just Rafe is fine. Please.”

“Of course. Goodnight… Rafe.”

Rafe listened to the sound of her shoes as she departed—faint, fainter, and gone. And then, just the machines. The soft hum in his otherwise quiet room.

He looked to the television—the black screen felt like relief, like he’d escaped, at least for a little while. He almost smiled, and it was bitter, sour. And the taste that stewed in him, it lingered even after he choked it back, like bile. It burned.

He’d seen the whole thing—the media circus, and his father; the ringmaster.

A mockery.

But perhaps worst of all were the messages that followed, the calls. His phone buzzing insistently on his bedside table, just beside the vase of goddamn flowers. It had only just begun to calm after the news initially broke—that had been bad enough.

But with the news reports—and with the statement—came the pictures. Rafe being wheeled out of his house on a stretcher. The ambulance, flashing lights. And Sam only a few steps behind, clearly distraught.

People were starting to talk about that as well—and that hurt, too. Rafe worried that it was only a matter of time before they put a name to the face.

Everyone knew who Rafe Adler was, but Sam… Sam was a mystery.

Then came the rumors.

_“This guy, we’ve heard what? He’s a colleague? Associate?”_

_“Look—all I’m saying is, I don’t have a single business associate I’d cry over like that.”_

_“Maybe they do work together, but it seems to me like Rafe Adler was mixing business with pleasure.”_

What bothered him was the speculation. The gossip. Rafe didn’t take issue with being talked about; he understood when company stock was discussed— _plummeting—the lowest it’s been in ten years—abysmal_ —and he tolerated a retelling of the facts, the details, but the rumors were too much.

Only he couldn’t speak for himself, not this time—who would believe him after the picture his father made sure to paint? Unsound, unstable, troubled, struggling.

And his father, he’d timed things perfectly—let the rumors build before finally making a statement. His words had been just vague enough, had skirted the subject just enough to only encourage more speculation. It was the first of several appearances, Rafe felt sure, although he knew his father would wait to make another statement; above all else, he’d want to milk the media attention without seeming to do so.

But he’d never let this sort of thing go unanswered. Drag it out, avoid it at first, let the _hoi polloi_ place their bets, then step in to set the record straight.

Rafe wasn’t sure yet which it would be, couldn’t guess if his father intended to confirm the rumors— _Sam_ —and proudly proclaim his support, or if he’d deny. But what Rafe was certain of was that it would be his father’s record, his father’s version. 

And, in the meantime, he’d made sure Rafe was kept powerless—a prisoner in his hospital bed.

 _Disgusting_.

Rafe sighed, settled back against the mattress. He reached, carefully, for the button near his bed that controlled the lights, and he dimmed them. But the room still seemed to bright, and so he turned them off.

The darkness felt more comfortable, less intrusive.

He sought out the anxiety, the shame, dug up everything he felt that he didn’t want to feel, and he expelled it—a concentrated effort to empty himself, much like cutting away infected flesh, getting rid of what would only cause more damage if neglected.

He’d never had to dig so deep before, and the realization brought about a new worry—how much of what remained was worth keeping? How much more was there to be cut away?

 _Troubling_.

So he carved that away, too, and he didn’t stop until he felt certain that, at least for a little while, he’d purged himself of all the things he didn’t want.

And then, he slept.

* * *

Sam sipped his coffee, determined to finish it even though it was too bitter. He needed the caffeine. Desperately. The hospital coffee wasn’t so bad with a few packets of sugar, some cream, but the sugar had run out.

He was posted up in what he’d come to consider his usual spot, the sofa against the wall with a good view of the double-doors he’d only managed to get through once—once, when Rafe had started to slip, and the paddles had brought him back again.

Sam closed his eyes against the thought, but saw it more clearly then—how pale Rafe was, and the bandages, and the way his muscles had contracted with each jolt of the paddles.

He shook his head, stared at his coffee cup instead, pushing those images out of his mind.

He wasn’t sure what time it was, he just knew that it felt late. Everything was upside down, and he realized he couldn’t even say for certain what day it was, either, but then again he’d stopped thinking in terms of days. Hours made more sense—and he thought it had to’ve been maybe 48 of them since he’d seen Rafe, through the glass.

Sam’s internal clock was in desperate need of a new battery.

He heard movement to his left, glanced over. A tall man, impeccably dressed, dark hair with gray at the temples, and more peppered throughout. He bypassed the nurse’s station completely, as if he owned the place. No one moved to stop him.

Rafe’s father.

Sam stood, his heart beating faster.

_You leave him alone. Leave him alone, you fuck._

Sam took a step forward, but stopped at the feeling of a hand on his arm.

“Sam?”

He nearly dropped his coffee, turning toward the voice, the touch. He glanced back in time to see those double-doors swinging, and Rafe’s father gone from sight.

“Oh. Ah, hey Andi.”

She offered a small smile, eyes briefly darting in the direction that Sam had been looking. “Is something wrong?”

Sam sighed, rubbing his nape. He threw back the rest of his coffee, squinting as it burned his throat. “Rafe’s old man. I just saw him.”

Andi tilted her head, a few blonde strands coming loose from her messy bun. “I hadn’t heard he was here. I would’ve thought, with the media—”

“Fuck him. He’s an asshole. He’s the last person who should be back there with Rafe, especially now.”

Andi looked surprised, frowning. “Oh…”

Sam fidgeted with his empty styrofoam cup, bottom lip tucking between his teeth as he worried at it.

“Listen, Sam, do you have a minute?”

“You know I do.” Sam tried not to look as glum as he sounded.

“Right. Sorry. Come with me.” 

She turned on her heel and headed toward the cafeteria. It had quickly become their usual spot where they could talk, away from prying eyes, an easy place to blend in so that she could give Sam updates on Rafe.

As they neared the cafeteria, Sam slowed. “Hey, ah…do you think this time we could step outside? I could really use a smoke.”

Andi crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s—”

“Bad for me, I know.” Sam lifted a shoulder, offered a small smile. “It was worth a try, anyways.”

Andi softened. “I’m not trying to give you a hard time, I just only have a minute. I go on shift in ten. I’m supposed to check on Rafe first thing.”

Sam perked up at Rafe’s name. “How is he?”

“He’s improving. Dr. Klein doesn’t seem to think he’s a risk for another attempt. He’d—” She paused, frowned.

“What?”

A soft sigh. “He’d probably be home already, except Dr. Klein says Mr. Adler hasn’t cleared it.”

“How can he do that? Rafe’s a grown man, that’s…” He shook his head. “That’s bullshit, Andi.”

“I know. But Sam, he’s donated millions to this hospital. There’s no way the Board of Directors would risk making him unhappy.”

“Goddamnit. That sonofabitch—”

“Hey. Hey, careful. Remember where we are.” Andi put a hand on his shoulder, shifted them so Sam’s back was to the room. She lowered her voice, and her body language encouraged Sam to do the same. “You said he was here tonight, right? Then I’d be willing to bet someone from the press is here, too. You don’t want to make a scene, Sam, they’ll kick you out.”

Sam took a deep breath, closed his eyes. He thought of Rafe, the way his fists clenched and how he counted backwards, his lips moving soundlessly from ten to zero, and again, and again, until the noise faded and things were okay.

He thought of Rafe, and he tried the same thing—

_Ten, nine, eight—_

_I just wanna see you, just wanna feel you and know you’re still here. Oh, baby, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry._

_—three, two, one—_

“Sam?”

_—zero._

“Yeah. Sorry. I’m a’right.”

“I should be able to give you a better update after I see him.” Andi checked her watch.

“Thank you.”

“Behave in the meantime?” She smiled, nudged him lightly, then headed back in the direction they’d come.

Sam sighed, raking his fingers through his hair. He needed a shower, but it was so hard to pry himself away from the hospital. He hated being home, at their house—it was too big already, but without Rafe it threatened to swallow him whole. He couldn’t sleep in their bed, couldn’t even set foot in their bathroom. It was too fresh, and it hurt too much.

When he did run home to shower, he used the guest bathroom downstairs, and never stayed longer than necessary.

He stepped aside, waiting as fresh coffee was swapped for the near-empty pot, and Sam couldn’t resist topping off.

He refilled his cup, added some cream, rummaged in the small bowl until he found one that said hazelnut instead of vanilla. Something different, to break up the monotony.

Sam turned, intending to head back to the sofa when something caught his eye. On the television nearest him, tucked away in the corner above the coffee pots and juice, cups and straws and lids.

“What—”

Rafe’s father on screen. The timestamp indicated that the footage was from earlier that day, and Sam thought back to Rafe’s father in the waiting room, thought of him and felt sick. He caught a portion of the words on the news crawl read, “—Adler, former CEO, joins us now with a statement regarding his son’s suicide attempt.”

Sam moved closer, drawn like a moth to the flame. He leaned up, stretched out, reached over to adjust the volume.

“— _grateful for the outpouring of love we have received during this most difficult time. Unfortunately I will not be taking any questions, and my wife and I would ask that you respect our privacy, and the privacy of our son. Rafe_ —”

He paused, and Sam scowled at the ease with which Rafe’s father feigned swallowing back tears.

“ _—our son is…very troubled. We’re concerned about his mental state. Please. Don’t judge him for this, he’s struggled for years with these—tendencies. Why, he told me after he woke up in the hospital how overwhelmed he’s been since he’s taken my place as CEO. I told him what I’m telling you all now; what’s important is getting him well. And I will be back as acting CEO in his place. For as long as it takes._ ”

Sam’s fingernails dug in to his palm as he listened to Rafe’s father spinning his web. It made his blood boil.

Rafe was so private about his personal life, and so proud of his job; it would deal a great blow to have the general public see him as troubled, weak.

He thought of Rafe—prayed that Rafe hadn’t seen the news. Knew how unlikely that was.

He turned away, hurried back to his spot, sat down heavily.

Sam noticed when Rafe’s father appeared again in the waiting room. He sat up straighter when their eyes met. A moment of recognition crossed the older man’s face, and though Sam’s stomach turned, he continued to stare him down, didn’t bother to hide the hate on his face as Rafe’s father approached.

“You,” he was saying, and his expression was cordial, his eyes were anything but. “I know you.”

Sam stood, refusing to let Rafe’s father look down at him—on him. “No. You don’t.”

“Of course I do. I’ve seen your picture.” A cold smirk, a scrutinizing glance.

Sam pursed his lips. He knew the picture in question—Rafe on the stretcher, the paramedics, and Sam, only a few steps behind but so lost, and so afraid.

“You were there.” Rafe’s father continued, crossing his arms over his chest, eyes narrowing even as his smirk intensified. “You were in the house with him. In fact, it was you who called 911, isn’t that right? You’ve been—ah, forgive me, I’m not very clear on timing, Rafe doesn’t tell me much these days. Exactly how long have you been fucking my son?”

Sam shoved his free hand in his pocket, an effort to stifle the urge to feel one of those sharp fucking cheekbones against his knuckles, to reign in the desire to bloody that smug face with his fists until bone broke and skin split, until it all caved in.

“You shut your fuckin’ mouth, you got no idea—”

“Calm down. No need to be so defensive. Not unless—oh, don’t tell me you _love_ him.” He raised a brow at Sam, amused. “Christ. You do. Or, you think you do. You’re playing with fire and it burns you, and you call that love. How poignant.”

“Hey, lookit, you listen—”

“No, _you_ listen. Rafe’s damaged. Broken. And if you insist on carrying on like this—with him—he’ll break you, too. Although perhaps…”

A pause then, and Rafe’s father leaned closer, as if searching for something, something he’d caught just a glimpse of.

“Ah yes. But of course. You know I’m right, because he already has. Why, just look at you—” A sweeping gesture. “They told me about your outburst, and the tears, and you’re still here even though he doesn’t want to see you. When was the last time you slept? And I don’t mean a cat nap on the couch. You’re all wrung out over him.”

“I—” Sam faltered. The anger was still there, but something else was, too. An ache, all encompassing, deep.

Rafe’s father leaned back—he’d spotted what he was after; the weakness, the hurt.

_What do you know, the poor bastard really does love my son._

Something in his eyes changed, darkened. _Too easy._ The blade was sharp, and he was ready to sink it in deep, and _twist_.

“Where were you, then? When he was bleeding out in the bathroom. You love him so much, but how long did he lay there, alone?”

Sam opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat, stuck there. The guilt—

He blinked, felt tears, hot, in his eyes. 

_Goddamnit, no. Don’t give him the satisfaction, don’t—_

But it was too late.  Sam knew it by the way Rafe’s father squared his shoulders, straightened his back. The gleam in his eye, the curve of his lips, like victory.

“It’s not enough, whatever it is you think you’ve got to offer. Honestly. I’m surprised he even let you in his bed. Whatever love you think you have to give, he won’t return it. He doesn’t do that. He _can’t_. You’re wasting your time, he’s not worth it.”

“He’s worth _everything_ ,” Sam growled, sure to keep his voice low. “And you need to cut the bullshit and get the fuck outta my face before I break yours.”

Sam saw a flash of something then, in those eyes—dark, threatening. Brought to life by the threat of violence, and quickly extinguished by sheer force of will. It was something like _desire_.

“Another time, perhaps.” Rafe’s father laughed, quick, sharp, cold.

Sam took a deep breath, watching as Rafe’s father turned abruptly, left.

He sat down, released the tension he didn’t realize he’d built up. He sat his cup of coffee carefully on the floor beside the leg of the sofa. Not interested. Just tired.

Beyond carrying about appearances at this point, he stretched out as best he could on the small sofa, on his back, one arm thrown across his eyes.

He tried to sleep, but it was broken—small gaps in which he began to drift, only to be pulled back by the sound of footsteps, or a voice on the intercom.

And so he squeezed his eyes shut tighter, draped his other arm over his chest, and imagined it was Rafe’s, imagined they were home and tangled together. Warm. 

And he could almost feel Rafe’s heartbeat, could almost smell Rafe’s skin. He imagined watching Rafe sleep, the way his eyes sometimes moved behind his eyelids, the way his lips would part, but just a little, and it was all Sam could do in those moments to resist waking Rafe up with a kiss.

Rafe’s father was right—Sam was wrung out. But he didn’t care, because twisted up over Rafe was still better than whatever the hell life had been before him.

He was floating again, not quite asleep but no longer awake, and he kept telling himself that it was just a bad dream.

All a bad dream. That falling asleep, it’d really be waking up.

_Oh, Sammy, wake up. It’s all a nightmare, and can’t you just—_

* * *

Wake up.

_The belt, around his throat. Tight. Digging in._

_The struggle to breathe—a battle, a fight, and his father standing over him, the weight of his body holding Rafe down, covering, smothering._

Wake up—

_“You’re nothing. A disgrace.”_

_Rafe clawed at the leather, clawed at his throat, but his grip was weak, and weaker at every increased attempt._

_“You’re costing me a fortune.”_

_Rafe tasted blood, felt the heat of it in his throat, but then it grew cold, it thinned, and then it was wine, spilling out, and as he continued to pull at the strip of leather around his throat, the wine dripped down his hands, his wrists. Disappeared beneath the crisp white bandages, settled into the cuts._

_The sting._

_The heat._

_“What have you done to yourself? Ghastly.”_

Wake up.

_Rafe felt himself slipping, his vision blurring, but his father’s voice was strong, booming._

_“I’ll finish what you couldn’t._

_Rafe opened his mouth, but his voice failed him._

_His ears were ringing, drowning out all else._

_A frantic beeping—a rush of—something unsteady—alarming—_

Rafe opened his eyes. He heard himself gasp, a deep and greedy struggle for oxygen. His pulse was racing. He was confused.

“Sam—”

_That one was…new—that one felt worse—_

Rafe’s breathing was quick, labored, and loud. His throat still felt tight, although he understood that it was only the dream.

“Sam.”

_Where is he? Where am I? Why is the bed so little? God, that beeping—_

“The alarm—turn off the alarm— Please.”

It was dark, and Rafe reached out, reached for where the alarm would be on his nightstand, if he were home—pressed it, or tried to, but his fingers felt numb— _my arm’s asleep? I didn’t think I slept on it funny_ —and he couldn’t say for sure if he’d pressed it or not.

But the beeping didn’t stop, so he guessed didn’t press it, and when he tried again, he noticed there was a tug—resistance, restriction in the movement of his arm. And pain.

“Goddamnit!”

Rafe tried to sit up, didn’t quite manage. The sheets were tucked in too tight— _Sam this isn’t funny, what the hell_ —and their bed was smaller than he remembered.

Light, spilling in. The door, opening.

“Sam?”

“Rafe—It’s Andi, you pressed the call button? What’s wrong?”

She hit the light switch as she entered the room, but she chose the one over the small seating area rather than the full room lights. It was still more light than Rafe was prepared for.

Rafe blinked, turned his head away from the sudden brightness. “What.”

He looked up at her as she neared his bed, and he knew her, but he didn’t know her. She was familiar, but his mind was… There was too much. A fog. And he was lost in it, searching for the way out.

“Sam—I need Sam.”

“Okay. Okay, just—Rafe, hey, you’re okay. Can you calm down for me, try to take a few deep breaths?” Andi started to reach out, thought better of it when Rafe shrunk back.

“ _Please_ —”

“Okay. I’m gonna go get him, okay? I’ll be right back.”

Rafe glanced down, fidgeting under the covers. Warm. _This isn’t right. These sheets are too scratchy, and goddamnit why is the alarm still going off—_

Movement at the door, a long shadow, it stretched almost all the way to the end of the bed, and Rafe looked up. His heart skipped, his body felt weak with relief.

_Finally something that makes sense—_

“Sam.”

Sam didn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until Rafe said his name, and then it felt like all the air came rushing back—like suddenly he could breathe again. An overwhelming mix of emotions crossed his face, and at the core of them all was love. Deep and unwavering.

“Rafe—” Soft, tremulous. Just like the unsteady beat of his heart.

Rafe frowned at Sam’s voice, looking apologetic. “Did I wake you? I’m sorry.”

Sam furrowed his brow, took a few tentative steps closer. Afraid if he moved too fast, Rafe would change his mind, send him away.

“Where have you been? Weren’t you going to come to bed?” Rafe looked confused even as the words left his mouth, and it flustered him, made his heart beat faster. “I mean—” Rafe dropped his gaze, eyes darting left and right. The IV port in his arm. The barriers on the edge of their bed— _no, not our bed, it’s not_ — “What do I mean? What—”

The sound—his heart monitor. Not the alarm. _Stupid._

“…Rafe?”

“I’m—I’m—”

_The hospital. Stitches. My arm's not asleep, it’s my hand—I can’t fucking feel it. Shit. Shit—_

Sam closed the distance, called in by the tremor of Rafe’s voice, the distress steadily building in his features, on his face. “Hey— Hey, I’m here. You’re a’right, I got you.”

“Sam?” Rafe looked up, found Sam’s eyes.

“Oh, baby, it’s—it’s so good to see you.” Sam was smiling, the tears in his eyes threatened to spill over at any moment. “Can I—” He lifted a hand, extended his fingers, then curled them into a fist again, waiting for permission.

Rafe took another deep breath, not once shifting his gaze, waiting. Counting— _calm down, calm, control, need to be under control_ —grounding himself on the only thing he felt certain that he could—Sam. Then, a slow nod.

Sam’s touch was faint, almost apprehensive. A brush of fingertips across Rafe’s brow, lightly coaxing the hair away from his forehead. When Rafe remained complaisant, Sam continued, grazing the backs of his knuckles along the line of Rafe’s jaw, the side of his throat. His touch lingered, and he closed his eyes, whimpered as he felt Rafe’s pulse, strong, albeit a bit fast.

 _Alive._ **_Alive._ **

Sam’s knees felt weak, and he was thankful for the chair already so near Rafe’s bedside. He reluctantly withdrew his hand, pushed the chair closer, and sat.

“I’m so sorry. Rafe, I’m so fucking sorry.”

At first Rafe couldn’t think of what Sam could mean, but then—

A flash—a spark. Of emptiness, of glass, of red heat.

“Don’t.” Rafe closed his eyes against the images, wet his lips. “I—I can’t. Not right now. I’m—” He shook his head, he felt uneasy, there was almost no order to his thoughts, as if everything he’d worked so hard to push out earlier had all come roaring back, and all at once. “I’m…not—something’s not _working_. Fuck. Oh, _fuck_.”

Sam straightened, the shift of tone in Rafe’s voice alarmed him. “Hey. Okay, okay baby, forget I said anything, eh? We got plenty of time— Rafe. Hey, Rafe.”

Rafe was staring somewhere past Sam, he looked contemplative, very near dreamlike. His voice was, all at once, eerily calm. “My throat hurts. I don’t know if it’s the wine or the belt. Both.”

“No, baby, no. That was just a dream, right?” Sam leaned closer, instinctively reached for Rafe’s hand, but one glance at the bandages forced him to change course. He combed his fingers through Rafe’s hair instead.

“A dream…” Somewhere between a statement and a question, a little unsure. “But he was here today. Wasn’t he?” _Why is everything so foggy?_

“Yeah, he was.” Sam opted not to disclose the conversation he’d had, but it wasn’t just to save Rafe’s feelings; he wasn’t sure he could talk about it without getting angry.

“You’re here today, too.”

“I’m here, sweetheart.”

“Sam. I don’t want to be here.” Rafe sighed, closed his eyes, and leaned to Sam’s touch. “I want to go home.” Everything else might be confusing, but that was one thing he felt sure of.

Sam swallowed the lump in his throat, fighting back the tears. He thought of what Andi had said about Rafe’s father, about keeping Rafe here, but it just started the anger brewing and so he fought that back, too.

“Soon. We’ll get to go home soon, a’right? Just gotta get you better first.”

“Right."

Sam hesitated, then pressed a soft kiss to Rafe’s forehead. “You should try and get some sleep.”

Rafe furrowed his brow, turning his head to look at Sam. His eyes were tired, and distant—Sam noticed the difference immediately, and it made him ache to bring a light back to them.

“Do you want me to stay?” Sam’s voice was gentle, timid.

Sam watched as Rafe considered him, offered a small smile of encouragement, and it was easy for him to emote his affections because they were always there and at the surface anyway, and because they were always _true_.

Rafe’s eyes, shifting back and forth, finally settled on the emotion he saw there, and despite the weariness, what came across most strongly was the relief, the love, the concern.

It was familiar, which felt like a comfort. And it was safe.

“Okay.”

Sam inhaled, exhaled slowly, relieved that he hadn’t been sent away.

Rafe closed his eyes, and soon his breathing slowed, his body relaxed, and Sam knew he was asleep.

Sam watched him for as long as he could stay awake, drinking in the sight of him like a man dying of thirst. Each detail, every feature, examined and compared to his memory, and for each thing that didn’t match—the bandages, for instance, and the new sort of pained resignation behind his eyes—there were so many more that did.

The strong line of his jaw, the small scar at his hairline, the shape of his eyebrows, his lips. His hair was longer, and he needed a shave—Sam felt sure if Rafe were to see himself in the mirror he’d cringe—but that was nothing, it didn’t matter. Sam pushed aside the differences and basked in what remained the same, found solace there.

And finally, when he could fight sleep no longer, he leaned back, scooted down in his chair, and followed Rafe to sleep.

* * *

It was morning, early, before Rafe stirred again, and he opened his eyes relieved to come out of sleep so easily, the nightmare absent. He felt heavy, groggy, as if he’d been asleep much longer than a few hours.

His arms hurt, an unwelcome reminder of his father’s visit the day before.

He let his eyes adjust to the low light in the room, and he noticed Sam—

_Sam?_

His brow furrowed, he struggled to remember.

_Oh._

It came gradually back, creeping up from the depths of his sleep-addled subconscious. His father, and then the nightmare, and asking for Sam. No, begging for him.

A brief moment of clarity; the look on Sam’s face as he paused in the doorway, a look of unbridled devotion, of fear, of heartache.

Relief.

And oh but Rafe had felt it to, in the soft contact of Sam’s fingers, like the burden was lessened. The weight was shared, and things didn’t feel so lonely.

He watched Sam silently—Sam, who was leaning forward, one arm braced against the edge of the bed, and his forehead pressed against it. His breathing came slow, steady—Rafe could hear it, not quite a snore, but nearly there. 

His hair was a mess, tousled, and Rafe instinctively lifted an arm, intending to run his fingers through it, but as he tried to reach, the tightness persisted, and it seemed almost as if he had no control over his fingers, and he had almost forgotten—

_No. No, oh fuck—_

He shifted in the bed, let his arm drop back to his side in defeat, but that hurt and he cried out, startling Sam awake.

“Mmn—Rafe. Rafe?”

Rafe winced, shook his head. “It’s nothing—”

But Sam was sitting up, dragging his fingers through his hair—Rafe had to stop himself from whimpering again, just thinking about how much he wanted to do the same, feel Sam’s hair against his fingers.

Sam scooted the chair back so that he could stand. “You sure, baby?”

“I’m sure.”

Rafe closed his eyes when Sam’s palm pressed against his forehead, pushed his hair back. When Sam’s hand moved to cradle the back of his head—an attempt to adjust his pillow for him—Rafe inhaled sharply, grimaced.

“Shit! I’m sorry, what happened?” Sam withdrew carefully, shoving his hands in his pockets, frustrated that each attempt to help just seemed to keep making things worse.

“It’s fine. I…I hit my head. Probably on the tub, they tell me. It’s nothing serious, they’ve even stopped bandaging it, it’s just—a little tender.”

Sam sat back down, leaned forward, dropped his head to his hands. “Fuck.”

“Don’t. You didn’t know.”

“Well maybe I would have if—” Sam frowned, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ah, shit.”

“Say it. Whatever it is. I’m too tired to guess.”

“Last night’s the first time you asked for me.” Sam stood again, began to pace. “I get it, I—I fucked up, and I never shoulda said what I did, back at—back before— fuck. Fuck, Rafe. I’d take it all back, every word, and I’m so sorry I pushed you like that, but baby—it’s misery, not seeing you. Just…just worrying, and waiting, and—just—”

Sam stopped, turned to face Rafe, and Rafe felt a pang of guilt at the pain that all but radiated from him.

“Apart. Just, fuckin’…alone. I woulda been in here every second, Rafe. I would’ve given anything to be back here with you.”

“I know.”

“Then why—” Sam’s shoulders slumped, his face fell. “Why?”

“Sam, I…”

Sam could see the struggle in Rafe’s eyes even before he began, and so he didn’t wait for Rafe to finish. He closed the distance once again and leaned down, his palms pressed to the mattress on either side of Rafe’s shoulders as he pressed his lips to Rafe’s. 

They were dry, a bit cracked, but Sam’s focus wasn’t on the texture of Rafe’s lips. His focus was on their movement, the response, and he held his breath, afraid, until he felt what he knew so well—Rafe’s lips parting at Sam’s behest, his mouth pliant against Sam’s, and willing. The heat, the soft sigh. Sam felt tears on his cheeks, felt like his heart might burst when Rafe began to kiss him back, because it was hope, and because it made Sam feel like things would be okay again.

Sam heard a sound at the door, blushed as he reluctantly stilled his lips against Rafe’s, and finally pulled away.

Rafe’s cheeks were flushed, the sleep had fled from his eyes, and now he seemed both keenly aware and also distracted. His eyes moved toward the door—relieved to see it was Andi, at least—before returning to Sam, watching him with something like gratitude.

“Good morning, Mr.— ah, Rafe.” Andi smiled. “Sam.” She nodded his direction, and Sam flashed a sheepish grin.

“Morning.” Sam lingered near Rafe’s bedside, reluctant to step away.

“How are you feeling this morning?”

Andi moved to the other side of the bed, let Sam have his space. She grabbed Rafe’s chart, glanced at it, and after Rafe told her he felt okay, she jotted that down.

“I… I’m going to have to change your bandages.” She kept her eyes on Rafe, sparing Sam a quick apologetic look.

Rafe sighed. Resigned. “Alright.” He turned his head, brows knit as he looked at Sam—and Sam understood, saw the embarrassment that colored Rafe’s features.

Sam shifted closer, leaned over Rafe, fingers finding their way to Rafe’s hair again, a habit. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ll just, ah…I’ll run to the cafeteria. Grab some coffee. Yeah?”

Rafe nodded, mouth tight.

“Can I…?” Sam’s eyes darted to Rafe’s lips, and when Rafe leaned up slightly, Sam claimed them once more. Short this time, and chaste. “I love you.”

Rafe watched Sam go, then turned his attention to Andi, and she blushed when he caught her looking at him.

“Stop it,” he said, but there was a hint of something playful behind his eyes this time. Something happy.

Andi grinned as she moved closer, but kept her mouth shut. “Let’s start with the right arm, okay?”

“Okay.”

He lifted his arm, closed his eyes. Always. He didn’t like to watch, he’d tried once. The first time. But what he saw turned his stomach, made him lightheaded, and so now he refused.

Andi worked meticulously, patiently, and once she finished his right arm, she moved to the other side of the bed. He hated it the most for his left arm. His right, it ached, but he could feel it, and that was something. But his left—he tried often to push his limits, stretch, extend, but still there was nothing.

He heard footsteps approaching, noticed it over the sound sound of Andi humming while she worked, and he tensed, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Sam, don’t look—”

“Sam? Ah, so you finally let the poor man back here, did you?”

Rafe felt Andi’s fingers falter, and he opened his eyes to see his father standing in the doorway.

“Christ, you really did do a number on yourself.” His father was slowly moving closer, eyes fixed on Rafe’s arm.

“Sir, if you don’t mind, I think it might be best if you step outside while I finish up here.”

Rafe heard the determination in Andi’s voice, he felt a swell of appreciation for it, but it didn’t surprise him when his father refused.

“This won’t take long. In fact, perhaps it’s best if _you_ step out for a moment.”

“I’m afraid I can’t—”

“It’s fine.” Rafe clenched his teeth, locked eyes with his father even as he spoke to Andi.

He saw her from the corner of his eye, hesitant.

“I said it’s _fine_.”

Andi frowned, quietly left the room.

Just get this over with.

“What do you want?”

“I brought you the morning paper.” Rafe’s father tossed it in Rafe’s direction.

Rafe flinched when the folded pages landed in his lap.

“I took the liberty of circling the important parts.”

His father was leaning over him now, turning the pages for Rafe. “Ah, here we are. Thought you might want to take a look at what you’ve done—although with the way you’re avoiding even looking at yourself, perhaps I was wrong.”

Rafe dropped his gaze, to the bold print on the page, circled in red ink by his father’s heavy hand.

“—stock continues to fall as Adler remains hospitalized,” his father read aloud. “—expected to stabilize with the return of Adler, Sr.”

Rafe only caught pieces as his father spoke, only pieces because there was a ringing in his ears, punctuated by the leaden throb of his heartbeat.

“Stop. _Stop_ this, god damn you—”

Rafe wanted to cover his ears, combat the ringing with the hard press of his hands. He started to, an instinctive reaction, but the fingers against his skin felt numb, like they belonged to a stranger, and he felt the threat of tears again.

He realized, through the haze, that he could hear Sam’s voice—

“Rafe, I got you some coffee, too. Dunno if you’re allowed, but if not, then I’ll just drink it—”

Sam appeared in the doorway, still talking, stopped short when he saw Rafe’s father, and Rafe felt his stomach knot up at the look that came to Sam’s face in that moment.

“Sam, don’t—”

Sam’s eyes flew immediately to Rafe at the sound of his voice, and Rafe practically felt Sam’s heart break when he glimpsed Rafe’s half-bandaged arm, the deep cuts drawn shut, held together by stitches. The color drained from his face, he uttered a soft cry.

His grip on both cups of coffee faltered.

“Oh, baby, I—” Sam’s eyes fell on Rafe’s father, his expression hardened. “You. You get away from him, you’re fuckin’ _toxic_.”

“You again.” Rafe’s father offered no reaction to Sam’s words, and instead of moving away he sidestepped closer, until his hip bumped the railing on Rafe’s bed, and his hand dropped to Rafe’s exposed arm—Rafe gasped in response, tears springing to his eyes at the flare of pain. “I take it you haven’t seen them before, either—”

Sam’s hands shook, the coffee sloshed precariously. There was a brief moment in which he thought he could talk himself down, but then his fingers twitched too hard against the styrofoam and a bit of coffee spilled—he felt it on his hand, hot, and it reminded him of the bathroom, and holding Rafe, and the heat of blood on his hands. And suddenly he dropped both cups into the trashcan by the door— _fuck the goddamn coffee._

He wondered then, if this—the blind rage, the impossible urge to let go—if this was the sensation Rafe battled so constantly, and he thought that if it was, then Rafe was stronger than he’d ever really understood.

 _Stronger than me,_ Sam thought as he felt his resolve shatter, and he _lunged_ at Rafe’s father.

His fists clutched the front of the older man’s shirt, spun him so that they switched positions, Sam standing protectively near Rafe’s bed as he pushed Rafe’s father away.

“I’m not gonna say it again. You keep your filthy hands off of him, or I swear to God, I’ll—”

“You’ll _what_?” Rafe’s father sneered, smoothing the wrinkles from his shirt.

Rafe understood immediately what was about to happen. He felt it in the tension that came off of Sam’s body in waves—

“No, Sam— _don’t_ —”

Rafe reached out, tried to grab Sam, but his left hand was useless, and his right—the grip was too weak. He felt the material of Sam’s shirt, barely—like a memory. He tried his damnedest to hold on, but he couldn’t.

He just couldn’t. And something inside him shuddered to life. The dam cracked, broke, and everything came rushing out. Washing him away. The ringing in his head became a roar, and his thoughts a tempest.

He was vaguely aware of another presence in the room. Andi, again, and looking frightened.

He sensed a rise in volume—shouting. He wasn’t sure anymore if it was Sam, or his father. The scene played out like a dream, in slow motion, and all Rafe could do was look on. Powerless.

Sam, throwing his weight at his father. Slamming him against the wall, hard, and holding him there, one forearm pressed tight to his throat. Rafe didn’t need to see to know the way Sam’s eyes would be burning. Fury.

His father was laughing, and Andi was backing away, stepping aside as two men stepped in, grabbed Sam roughly, pulling him away from Rafe’s father.

“No, _NO_ —Rafe asked for me, you can’t do this. Rafe, tell ‘em. Baby, you gotta _tell_ ‘em—”

Rafe wanted to say something, do something, but when he opened his mouth, nothing happened.

 _What’s happening—no, no, no—no, fix this, you have to_ **_fix_ ** _this—_

But he looked to his father, and his throat felt tight as if the belt were there, and his breath started coming quicker, a panic, and the room threatened to start spinning, and everything was _so fucking out of control_ —

_I can’t—_

Rafe watched as Sam was forced from the room. When he disappeared from sight, Rafe felt that small flicker of happiness extinguish. Felt like a fool for thinking it would be that easy—as if a fragile meeting of lips could erase what he’d done—to himself, to _them._

His chest was tight, his heart heavy. 

His father laughed, brushed himself off, and he was talking again, those pointed words sharp as the glass from the mirror, but Rafe wasn’t listening.

Rafe laid back against the bed, closed his eyes.

_I can't._

He felt Andi approach, felt the gentle tap on the back of his hand, and he lifted his arm. Let her finish wrapping it. He hardly noticed it, he was too busy digging up and pushing out—again, again. Because it was familiar, and because—

_Maybe it’s time to stop fighting. And feeling just hurts, but I can push that out, too, and why not, because—_

**_Coward. You always run._ **

The light left his eyes as he emptied himself, and he noticed, briefly, curiously, that Andi saw the change. He could tell from her face, from the way she stepped back. The way she looked at his father—disgusted.

He thought she might be saying something, too. But her voice was as lost to him as his father’s.

_Where do you go?_

_Away._ **_Away._ **

_Will you come back?_

**_Maybe I don’t want to._ **


End file.
